


Strawberry Lube, Half-Eaten Pizza Bagels, And A Cake Box

by fallingforcas



Series: Husband's n' shit [8]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Comedy, Even More Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: Mickey buys a ring. Ian throws the ring in the trash, (accidentally, of course.)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husband's n' shit [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643434
Comments: 12
Kudos: 187





	Strawberry Lube, Half-Eaten Pizza Bagels, And A Cake Box

Ian stumbles clumsily as he pulled up his sweats, grabbing for a shirt that had been chucked aimlessly onto the floor the night before. Listening intently for the sound of the shower shutting off, Ian smiled lovingly, immersed in awe for the reality, _his_ reality, that had suddenly become profound. Mickey Milkovich was in _his_ shower, had been sleeping in _his_ bed, and despite all the twists and turns, break-ups and bust ups, and Ian’s looming diagnosis, they were finally happy. 

The bathroom door flings open with a slam, followed by the padded footsteps that Ian instantaneously recognised as his grump-ass boyfriend. Mickey enters the room with a sigh, all glimmering and wet, towel wrapped around his waist that emphasised the curve of his ass. Mickey glances over at Ian, who had already been checking him out honouring a mischievous smirk from his seated position on their bed, and blushes bashfully. 

“Fuck you lookin’ at, Gallagher?” Mickey blurts out, with no malice, with an attempt to pull off his trademark thug-like persona. 

Mickey had forgotten that the act never seemed to phase Ian. Ian’s smirk widens, his eyebrows wiggling whilst his hands reached out, all needy and grasping for Mickey’s body to come closer. He gleams achievement, as Mickey falls into his pleading, allowing Ian to place his firm hands around his covered cheeks, his own hands dropping to Ian’s shoulders. 

Ian chuckles a little, “Just admiring, you know.” 

Before Ian can receive a scoffing remark from Mickey, he witnesses Mickey’s expression drop dramatically, his arms tensing and mouth twitching with an emotion Ian struggled to recognise. Mickey pushes himself from Ian’s hands, eyes latched to the empty desk that was placed at the side of their bed. He motions with his hands, eyes nearly popping from his head, teeth sinking into his teeth with a combination of irritation and anxiousness. 

Ian notices, struggling not to point out Mickey’s sudden pale complexion, “What is it, Mick?” 

“Where is it?” Mickey spits, bluntly. 

Ian darts his attention to Mickey’s direction, confused immensely, wondering what the hell had got Mickey so jittery. He lets his thoughts run rampant, listing off each anniversary date, each birthday, or any other holiday they secretly enjoyed celebrating. Ian knew there was nothing coming up, nothing big enough for Mickey to buy him something for. They didn’t do gifts; not really. Ian decided that whatever Mickey was determined on finding, now that he was rampaging around their room desperately trying to locate the mysterious item, it was not a gift. Most likely his gun, or a wad of cash, or even the lube they had discarded so carelessly the pervious night. 

Ian steps up, concerned now, “Where’s what?” 

Mickey doesn’t look up, throwing clothes behind him in his search, “You know what, Ian.” 

“No, I really don’t, Mick.” Ian shakes his head, slightly amused. 

Mickey, with dramatic speed, throws more clothes behind him, some hitting Ian. He doesn’t answer Ian quickly, too focused on tipping their bedroom upside down. Ian’s becoming frustrated at Mickey’s reluctance to explain himself, his verbal constipation being one of Ian’s pet peeves, until he finally grips to Mickey’s eager wrist. “As much as it’s amusing to watch you trash our whole room, you’re going to have to help me out here, man. What the fuck has got you so --- so twitchy?” 

“The box.” Mickey finally blurts, demandingly. He releases his wrist from Ian’s grip, barging past him to stand by the desk by the bed. His eyebrows shoot to his hair-line, chest now beaded with sweat, and he points to the desk, “where the fuck is the box, Ian? I left it right there.” 

Ian vaguely remembers a box sitting on top of the desk. “A box?” 

“Jesus!” Mickey frails his hands into the air. “The fucking white box. It was _there_ this morning, Ian.” 

Flinching at Mickey’s unhinged reaction, Ian finally clicks onto which box Mickey had been referring to. “Oh, _that_ box. I chucked it in the trash.” 

Ian immediately regrets his confession once Mickey started freaking out, voice increasing to maximum level. Gripping at his hair, Mickey yells, “You did what?!” 

Unsure how to handle Mickey’s sudden stressful state, Ian steps forward with an apologetic smile, attempting to explain himself. “I chucked it. It was red velvet cake. I know you hate the taste of that shit, and it had been there for days, Mick. I wasn’t going to eat stale cake. If it was a gift, it was really sweet—”   
J

ust as Ian stepped over to Mickey, his hands yearning to curl around his frantic boyfriend, the blaring echo of the dump-truck drowned out his words. Mickey rejects Ian’s advances, one hand gripping tightly at his falling towel, as he rushes over to the window. Cracking the blind open frantically, he slams his fist against the glass of the window. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” 

Suddenly, he’s racing towards the door. Ian goes to stop him, but Mickey’s already out of the door yelling out profanities in the process. Ian takes a second to breath, internalising Mickey’s strange behaviour, and rushes after him. “Mickey! What the fuck are you doing?” 

Mickey stumbles down the stairs with urgency, bashing into Lip as he plunged towards the front-door. Lip eyes him suspiciously, with no time to process what he had just walked in on, as he notices Mickey’s almost naked appearance and erratic dash to get out of the house. Ian follows suit, also rushing past Lip with force. Lip puts his hands up in surrender, following the two with a sudden interest in the comical situation. 

As he reaches porch, Ian’s standing on the steps, mirroring Lip’s reaction to Mickey literally chasing a dump-truck down the street. Lip pulls out a smoke, nudging Ian. “You two break up again?” 

“No.” Ian answers with certainty. They watch as Mickey slams his hand against the truck in an attempt the stop it. Ian’s face twists in sheer bemusement, “I have no idea what this is.” 

Lip snorts, “And I thought you were the crazy one. Never thought I’d be seeing Mickey Milkovich chasing a fuckin’ truck full of our trash in _just_ a towel. Fuck you do, man? He’s lost it.” 

Ian rolls his eyes at Lip’s amusement, climbing down the stairs to approach his boyfriend. Mickey was smacking the back of the truck, yelling out for it to stop. As Ian stepped behind him, the truck stopped with a halt, the driver calling out, “Fuck you playing at?” 

Mickey ignores such protests, without noticing Ian’s worried presence behind him, and begins grabbing trash bags from the truck. Somehow still latching onto his towel, Mickey begins rummaging through the three bags he had successfully pulled from the back of the vehicle. 

Ian dips his head a little, as he asks, “Mickey, what _are_ you doing?” 

“It must be in one of these.” Mickey grumbles, ripping open a bag, trash flying behind him as he searched desperately through cardboard boxes, takeaway leftovers, and babies diapers. 

In his head, Ian was starting to repeat Lip’s words in his mind. _Yep, Mickey had definitely lost it._ Ian looks in disgust at Mickey’s determined efforts, attempting to grab Mickey by his arm. “Seriously, Mick. This is crazy. You’re literally going through trash, right now. What could be so possibly important about a goddamn cake?!” 

Mickey chucks the near-empty trash bag behind him, reaching for the second. His hair was all over the place, eyes darting about like a maniac. With an unhinged confession, he blurts out, “It’s a fuckin’ ring! I’m looking for the fuckin’ ring.” 

Ian, taken aback, squints his eyes, “A ring? What ring?” 

Mickey strangles the air, stopping his search through the rotting trash for a second, and grunts loudly. He doesn’t take the time to explain properly, too invested in finding the box that Ian had carelessly chucked away without a thought. “The ring _I_ bought for you. The ring that _I_ put in the goddamn cake. In the fuckin’ cake _you_ chucked in the goddamn fuckin---” he chucks the trash behind him with immense fury, “ _trash!_ ” 

“Wait,” Ian’s eyes grow wide, “you bought _me_ a ring? _You_?” 

Mickey slams his dirt covered palms against his partially covered thighs, expression laced with murderous intent. “Yes. Fuckin’ shock of the goddamn century, save your cheesy-ass bullshit for later and help me find the fuckin’ thing. That shit was expensive.” He goes back to his in-depth scavenging against the endless amounts of trash. 

It takes a few seconds for Ian to calculate, and understand Mickey’s utterances, until he realises the existential significance beyond Mickey’s aggressive words. Mickey had bought him a ring. A goddamn ring. Not some stupid gift. A ring. That only meant one thing---

“Hey! Let me get my trash!” Ian shrieks, shedding his jacket as he copies Mickey’s previous desperate actions, gripping to three trash bags that sat in the dip of the dump-truck. He stumbles against a couple of stray bottles, pushing his fingers into the black material to rip open the bulging trash bag. For a minute, or two, Mickey and Ian dashed around the sidewalk, ripping open serval bags, kicking at bottles, food items, and tissues lined against the concrete. 

Carl climbs the steps of their porch, eyes unmoving from the pathetic display before him. As he nears Lip, who is still giggling in his position by the door, he asks, “Is that Ian and Mickey?” 

“Yep.” Lip scoffs around his smoke.

“Is that Ian and Mickey rummaging through _our_ trash?” 

“Yep.” Lip repeats, shifting in his space to make room for Carl. 

In unison, they both declare with a laugh, “Fuckin’ lost it.” 

With unsuccess, Ian and Mickey had gone through six bags without finding the box that Ian had regretfully chucked, oblivious to its contents. Finally, Ian gets to his last trash bag, opening it with wide eyes, excitement beaming from his expression, “Wait.” He glances over the familiar items cluttered within the plastic, “empty bottles of strawberry lube, half-eaten pizza bagels, and endless packs of Marlboros. This is our fuckin’ trash!” 

Mickey leaves his own pile of rubbish, charging towards Ian. They both frantically grip at the rubbish, chucking it behind them with hope glinting in their eyes. Empty bottles of lube, cigarette butts, and food of an unknown nature, fly over their shoulders forming a distinct pile on the sidewalk. With much stress and desperate digging, Ian’s eyes gleam with elation as he discovers a small white box, hidden beneath a takeout tub. He reaches for it quickly, pulling it from the confines of the plastic lining, and gasps with anticipation as fiddles with it in his shaking palm. 

Standing still in a precipitous state of anxiety, Mickey carefully watches Ian lift the box’s lid. “Shit.” He utters, quiet enough that he didn’t distract Ian from his entranced expression, and bites his lip. This wasn’t the proposal he had planned. It wasn’t going to be anything romantic, but it certainly did not involve his hands covered in rotten juice with Ian up to his ankles in rubbish. Despite their inappropriate surroundings, Mickey can’t stop his heart from constricting in a rapid rhythm within his chest, physically embodying a sense of utter awe as he keeps his gaze concentrated on his dopey, puppy-dog eyed boyfriend. Ian Gallagher did things to him that no other human could compare to. 

He guessed that was why he had literally dug through stinking rubbish for him. 

Ian’s eyes glow with devotion, mouth curling up into an adoring smile as the box reveals the simple, yet meaningful, ring. It was black, rimmed inside with a tint of gold, and it was perfect. Ian lifts his hand towards his mouth, simultaneously in a shimmering cloud of disbelief and wonderment. The ring was simple, everything he had asked for, and it made his rapidly beating heart pump against his shaky chest even more. Once opening the sentimental box, Ian lifts the ring from the cake, placing it by his tongue as he devoured the lingering crumbs that stuck against the metal. 

With a satisfied hum, Ian pushes the ring towards Mickey, “Ask me.” 

Mickey shakes his head, “Don’t make me do it, asswipe.” 

Smirk at his lips, Ian shakes the ring towards Mickey with urgency, “Fuckin’ ask me.” 

“Jesus, fine. You're such a goddamn girl.” Mickey snatches the ring from Ian’s grasp, unable to resist Ian’s pleads, because he had never been able to say no to Ian Gallagher, and slowly descends to one knee. Ian’s eyes light up with utter delight. “Gallagher—” 

“No, you need to use my full name.” Ian corrects. 

Mickey feels his knee already aching in it’s spot, his frustration building at Ian’s need to delay the process. “Fuck, you pussy-ass bitch.” He shifts in his spot, positioning the ring towards Ian with a shy smile balancing against his lips, “Ian fuckin’ _Gallagher_ , will you marry me?” 

“Maybe.” Ian teases, tapping his index finger against his chin. 

Mickey tilts his head to the side, allowing a disgruntled groan to escape his lips, as he steps up quickly from his crouched position, “Fuckin’ _maybe_? I’ve been ripping through fuckin’ diaper bags---” 

Ian surprises him, gripping his neck with the palm of his hand, and presses their lips together in a sudden movement of pure bliss. His tongue flickers against Mickey’s, their chests pressing together, hip’s jutting hungrily. Breathlessly, Ian breaks away, his hand still resting at the base of Mickey’s neck, and he whispers with certitude, “Of course, I’ll fuckin’ marry you.” 

They stand there, in the midst of overwhelming amounts of fetid trash, their bodies intertwined as their lips connected. Each kiss so tender, so loving, and a declaration of the development of their entire relationship. They were engaged. Mickey had stepped up and finally expressed his feelings without the need to throw a vicious punch, despite their surroundings.


End file.
